April is National Poetry Month, and at JSTOR, we celebrate the boundless creativity that poetry inspires across various forms of expression. 🎨 📜
This month, we highlight the seamless blend of visual art and verse, featuring stunning prints by William Blake from The Metropolitan Museum of Art's open collection. Blake's work exemplifies the powerful synergy between poetry and imagery, reminding us that words and art are profoundly interconnected.
Images: William Blake. Songs of Innocence: Spring. [1789] printed ca. 1825. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
William Blake. Songs of Experience: The Tyger. [1794] printed ca. 1825. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
William Blake. Songs of Experience: The Angel. [1794] printed ca. 1825. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
William Blake. Songs of Innocence: The Lamb. [1789] printed ca. 1825. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
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the demons overcome me at night.
six-word poem.
d.b.a
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I hope this grief stays with me. Because it's all the unexpressed love that I didn't get to tell.
[k.b. // andrew garfield [losing his mother]
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I see you lingering in the clouds
I see you lingering in the clouds so high
As we marveled in the summer sky
I see you in the dew that graced the dawn
Covering spiderwebs on the lawn
This is all that's left, just enough to be,
Just enough for me to continue to see
~ Midnight Sun
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for the hell of it (for the plot). a poem.
i see your ghost everywhere I go
an empty seat in the back of my car
missing from your spot on the couch
in my house
in my heart
i see you fade in and out of being
flicker in my eyes, taunting me
sometimes I pretend you're there
i smile toward the seat in the back of my car
but it always fades
because there's little to smile at
when you're no more than a ghost
a flickering memory
and an ache in my heart
-k.c.
and as requested, tagging @wistfulenchantress , @gardenofrunar , @justyourlocaldisaster
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“it will happen. everything you know
you deserve will happen. and when
it does, all those bad feelings and bad
experiences won’t matter anymore.
you will completely forget and
forgive. and all of that heaviness will
wash away in the shore.”
-
r.m. drake
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Stressors, smoking guns
building up to fire
once more.
I cannot hold
the universe
in my hands
without shaking.
I suppose it's all
life
anyway and that
I'll make it
in spite of
the natural disasters
within.
Robert J. W.
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proliferating weeds sprout
from cracks in the pavement,
much like the invisible tendrils
which branch out from my heart.
they feel out, grasping for
attention, for interaction, for any
semblance of human attachment.
call it greed, call it selfish,
call it love.
say what you wish:
"another person
can't bring you joy."
i don't mind;
i am desperate to conjoin
two halves of a whole.
"half and half."
d.b.a
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“I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.”
— C.S. Lewis
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To Be Changed
To allow yourself to be loved is to morph into wet clay,
soft and malleable,
quick to shift shape at the lightest touch.
I was a perfectly fine sculpture
with bumps and bruises and chips-
imperfections that came together to tell my story.
Your touch turned my hardened stone to pliant clay.
You flattened my bumps,
sharpened my curves,
smoothed over my chips.
You molded me into the perfect shape,
something you could find beautiful.
I became unrecognizable.
You compromised the structural integrity of my design.
You created bumps of your own
and chips to match,
until I needed your hands to hold myself up.
When you were done playing with wet clay,
you dropped your hands that held my shape,
and allowed me collapse in on myself.
Love was convincing,
pushed me to morph into what you wanted to see.
To be loved is to be changed,
and I hate the way you loved me.
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Just like any other day
And this day, like any other, seems,
When happiness lingered in my dreams
Family moments, a nostalgic view,
Sensitivity returns, emotions anew
Cherry blossoms I'd pick each morn,
Greeting the world as a new day is born
Today's sun and air, reminiscently,
Echo the past's familiar glee
Even the lit cigarette in the crowd,
Among those I once avowed,
Like a twist of fate and joy it seems,
All remembered in tranquil dreams
A pinkish glow, reminiscent and tender,
Recalls serene days in splendor
That beautiful summer of old,
Though now it makes me feel cold
And when night falls, as it must,
All turns into memories, lost in dust
To forget, such is my fate,
Living through the lens of forgetfulness, innate
~ Nihil Novi
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“sometimes you just have to stop trying to
control everything and let the universe step
in. everything sorts itself out with a little
time and patience.”
-
r.m. drake
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Does anyone ever have the sudden urge to join an online Dead Poets society randomly, in the middle of the day, every day? Imagine people sending voice notes of their poems or clips of their favourite dialogues, why isn't this a thing?
Tbh message me if you're interested we can start one
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Grief is everywhere. It's its own being. It walks beside you silently, jumps out at you meanly, pokes you awake at night. It makes tears roll down your cheeks at a blue sky.
Deb Caletti, A Heart in a Body in the World
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